“Heaven forbid!” said Violet.  “Yachting is simply another word for imprisonment to me.  I told Bruce I should certainly drown myself if I went with them.”

“I should like to introduce you to a form of yachting that is not imprisonment,” said Hunt-Goring.

Violet laughed.  “Oh, I should have to be mistress of the yacht for that.”

“Even so,” he rejoined significantly.

“And I shouldn’t have any men on board with the exception of the sailors,” she went on.

“And the captain,” said Hunt-Goring.

“Oh, dear me, no!  I would be my own captain.”

“You’d be horribly bored before the first week was out,” observed the major, as he followed her into the dining-room.

She laughed gaily.  “There isn’t a single man of my acquaintance in whose company I shouldn’t be bored to extinction long before that.”

“Oh, come!” he protested.  “You don’t speak from experience.  You condemn us untried.”

“I know you all too well,” laughed Violet.

“You know me not at all,” declared Hunt-Goring.  “I appeal to Miss Ratcliffe.  Am I the sort of man to bore a woman?”

“I am no judge,” said Olga somewhat hastily.  “I never have time to be bored with anyone.  Will you sit here, please?  I am sorry to say my uncle is in town to-day.”

“Where are the three boys?” asked Max.

Olga turned to him with relief.  “They have gone for an all-day paper-chase with the Rectory crowd and taken lunch with them.”

“Why didn’t you go too?” he asked.  “Too lazy?”

“Too busy,” she returned briefly.

“That’s only an excuse,” said Max.

She glanced at him.  “It’s a sound one anyhow.”

“What are you going to do this afternoon?” he asked.

“Mend.”

“Mend what?”

“Stockings,” said Olga.

“Great Scot!” said Max.  “Do you mend the stockings of the entire family?”

“Including yours,” said Olga.

“Oh, I say!” he protested.  “That wasn’t in the contract, was it?  Pitch ’em into my room.  I’ll mend them myself or do without.”

“One pair more or less doesn’t make much difference,” said Olga.  “As to doing without,—­well, of course, you’re a man or you wouldn’t make such a suggestion.”

“You’ve thrown that in my teeth before,” he observed.  “I think you might remember that I am hardly responsible for my sex.  It’s my misfortune, not my fault.”

She smiled, her sudden brief smile, but made no rejoinder.

Major Hunt-Goring and Violet, who had undertaken to cut up his meal for him, were engrossed in a frothy conversation which it was obvious that neither desired to have interrupted.

Max glanced towards them before he abruptly started another subject with Olga.

“How is Mrs. Briggs?”

Olga coloured hotly.  “Oh, she seemed all right.”

Max surveyed her rather pointedly.  “Well?  What had she got to say about me?”